Twenty Four Hours
by TheVulpineHero1
Summary: 24 pieces of Yuffentine, 500 words each. Angst, fluff, and humour contained within. Finally finished!
1. Locks

_Locks

* * *

_

The sun is shining, the grass is growing, the birds are flying. And Yuffie is removing Vincent's belts. Her soft fingers (surprisingly soft, given her background and profession) dance in unwitting circles over the places where his skin is most sensitive. He gives a groan, half full of annoyance and half full of something he doesn't want to admit exists, and rolls away.

Quicker than a flash, she has him pinned between her knees. She scowls like a petulant child, hits him in the shoulder, and gets back to the task in hand. He lies back, the knowledge that only a layer of leather separates his skin (every cell of which seems to be standing on tiptoes, reaching upwards to the warm woman on top of him) and her bare calves burning deep in his mind.

"Yuffie, do not do this." he moans, knowing that it will do no good. The ninja always got what she wanted, and right now she wanted his clothes to be off.

"Come on, Vince. We have to do this sooner or later. It may as well be sooner." she mouths, biting her bottom lip in concentration.

She cannot understand why her gun-slinging comrade wears so many belts. She understands, on one level, that it is most definitely not about keeping his trousers attached to his surprisingly lean frame. And that it is even more definitely not a fashion statement.

Deep in the depths of her heart, she completely understands why he wears so many belts, just as she understands why Red XIII tries to act so mature and Cloud is still trying to overcome the discomfort he feels around Tifa and Denzel. She understands that Red acts mature because he is scared of being a child at the wrong time, and that Cloud is uncomfortable because he's making sure that he's him, and not Sephiroth or Zack or anyone else that Tifa and Denzel might lose if he finds himself.

And she understands, in the deepest depths of her heart, that Vincent's belts are just one more symbolic layer of the restraints he places upon himself to prevent him from becoming a monster.

But Yuffie rarely visits the deepest depths of her heart, because she is too busy enjoying life. And so she understands but doesn't understand, choosing instead to accept or change things as it suits her.

Her mind idly compares undoing Vincent's belts to opening a treasure chest. There were locks to unlock, and the treasure would be him. It would be worth the effort.

In the end, she triumphs over his (admittedly feeble) efforts. His belts slither to the floor, and she yanks off his trousers without ceremony.

Underneath the leather, the blood pools. The wound on his thigh weeps red and demands her attention. Her Restore materia is at home (or so she says).

Smiling, she takes a photo of his boxers on her phone for future reference. Then, she grabs a potion, and gently begins her work.

* * *

A/N: Just thought I'd start this collection with a little bit of a fluffy fake-out. Hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Half Life

_Half-Life

* * *

_

His has been a strange and incomplete existence. He is man and monster, knight and dragon, quarry and chaser. And yet, in his world of paradoxes and fun-house mirrors, he has, on occasion, found what other men lack. A handful of things he is prepared to live for, and a truckload of things he is prepared to die for.

(When one has been sleeping in coffins for thirty years or so, death loses a fragment of its terrifying mystique.)

But even those things are paradoxes. He has lived for revenge, which, once achieved, flies from one's fingers and can never really be achieved. Once you have killed someone in revenge, they are dead, and anything you do to them is worthless. He knows this from harsh experience.

He has lived for a woman. A woman who loved and hated him at the same time, and to such a degree that it tore her apart, forcing her to become cold, hard and clinical- the very opposite of love and hate. In the end, she became a little like he had become as a Turk- a machine for achieving an objective, regardless of personal cost.

Now, that woman floated somewhere between life and death, a formless enigma on the edge of obscurity. He believes that she has passed on, but then he also believed Hojo had passed on.

He has lived for death. Without hated enemies against which to wage war in the name of peace and love, he decided to wait, in silence, as he had before, until the hourglass of his life finally ran out of sand.

He has lived a half-life.

And yet, none of this seems to matter to Yuffie Kisaragi. He knows it should, and he tries to impress upon her that she will be drawn into his world of shrouded edges and twisted perception.

She smiles and calls him crazy. But then tells him it's all right, because "everyone's crazy except for me, anyways". He wonders (foolishly and out-loud) if it is better to be crazy or sane in this world of paradoxes. She says, with the childish cruelty she has at times, that if he wishes to fall in love with someone who's nuts he should give Cloud a telephone call, and then they can be emo together. He sighs.

"But, Yuffie. I have lived a half-life. An incomplete life." he says. His soul, floating like motes of dust in an ether he does not care to name, strains against the world to make her realize quite how serious he's being.

She takes a step, two steps, carelessly showing off the awkward grace of her new-found maturity. She presses a finger to his lips as he opens them, and her other hand goes to his heart. She mimics the drum-beat she finds there with the unassuming wisdom of a child, and the sharp understanding of an adult. She, too, is a paradox.

"Half-life, huh?" she murmurs, smiling. "Why not share mine?"

* * *

A/N: Getting a little quieter and more philosophical for this one.


	3. Moon

_Moon

* * *

_

Something dark breaks from the clouds, soaring with reckless violence towards something darker still. Yuffie bites her bottom lip as panic writhes in the pits of her heart. When did she start caring this much, exactly? Maybe it was Nero, with his darkness, cloaking her in the same black shroud that lay inside Vincent's soul. In those moments, every movement Vincent has ever made, and ever word he has ever spoken, suddenly became set in radiant crystal in her mind.

And now, for the first time in her life, she understands him.

He dives into the blackness again, cloaking his light with talons and wings and violence. And he flies with no regrets into a blackness that is even greater than himself.

But how can black win against black, she wonders?

And as the question echoes inside her, she realises that this is the last battle in his war.

* * *

The days pass like months. The Cerberus Relief, the only evidence he was even there at all, glimmers in her pocket, one beastly head peeking above the cusp. Nowadays she wears shirts, for that reason and that reason alone; so that she can feel the cold silver next to her heart.

On the longest nights (because all nights were long, even before his disappearance) she feels as though the metal represents a promise. Not a promise from him to her, because he'd never promised her anything, but from her to him. She understands him now more than ever, and is almost certain she's the only one who does. Who else has felt the dark flames that lapped eternally at his heart? Who else knows him for what he really is, at the centre of the shadows and the murk?

But most important, she understands how it feels to see the entire world pass you by as you wait for someone who might never come back.

And so, she silently promises him that she'll be there, if he ever does. Because she understands him, and he needs that. At least, she prays he does.

* * *

She howls, and beats her fists against his chest. As she hammers blows upon his unresisting frame, she doesn't realise that her hands keep rhythm with his heart. She cries, on the point of collapse, and feels his arms supporting her so gently she could scream.

"Yuffie. I'm sorry to have worried you." he says, voice thicker than usual.

"No, you aren't." she says bitterly. She understands him. She knows.

"It was...necessary." he says. She cries again.

Jealously rages fiercely within her, and she doesn't know why.

So perhaps she doesn't understand him yet. But people can take a lifetime to understand.

He understands. He has had his lifetime, and lived it in a few short years. It was necessary to return to the darkness for a time, in order to bid farewell to it.

_The moon shines brightly in the blackness, but cannot escape it._

For the first time, he is not the moon.


	4. Diamond

_Diamond

* * *

_

Her hands are beautiful. She has long, slender, elven fingers- so very suitable for dipping into pockets or purses, for purposes that befit an imp more than an elf. Her knuckles are so small they don't seem to be there. Her nails are filed with military precision so as not to snag on the silken seams of the Wutaian upper class.

And yet, below the knuckles which hardly seem to be there, below the slender fingers that steal and snatch, battle is painted on her palms.

Her lines of life, head, and heart have all but been erased by the harshness of the life she has lead. Her palm has been cut, scored and notched by the weapons she wields. Some cuts are barely noticeable, tiny red marks bought in a few days and healed in fewer. Those are the new cuts.

The older cuts are embossed with sallow pink, arching across her palm like an arrow shot skywards. The scars tell the story of a time when those elfin fingers were shorter and thicker, those knuckles yet smaller, those nails not yet shortened for their larcenous task. They tell of a time when a child's hand wept red onto the unyielding stone of the many-faced mountain, and of a child who spilt her own blood as if it would never run out.

They tell of a girl who foolishly believed that, by giving her blood to blade and stone, she could restore the life of a dying culture.

His hands are beautiful. Or, perhaps not; one of them certainly is, but the other remains sheathed in metal, like an ancient warrior's noble sword. The hand he shows is worth showing. The fingers are long and elegant, tapering to a point with some shadowy, understated menace. They are strong, efficient fingers, toned for one motion and one motion alone. As they tense around the butt of his gun, the menace bursts forth with lead as its escort, and his purpose is fulfilled.

His palms are curious and unnatural things. The lines meant to proclaim his fate to anyone brave enough to read them are warped and featureless. There are merely broken shadows where a destiny was once scribed.

Perhaps, of course, the lines have migrated elsewhere. His fate has been rewritten by a fool who played God; mayhap the jester that writes upon the hand knows it, and has made adjustments. Whatever the truth, his lines have moved to places they should not be, pushed from place to place by the sprouting of beast's claws and demon's talons, and no longer show one heart but many.

Their hands are different, yet similar. They seem to fit easily with each other, as one half fits with another. Their palms are no longer the map of their fate; they are free to wander the paths of life without compass nor sextant.

Their hands are similar on one other count. Upon the third finger, both carry a diamond that shines with many faces.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the delay. This was somewhat difficult to write, and it was hard to get a concept for diamond that fitted with the overall theme of this collection. I'm not sure how it came out, but I hope it was good enough to entertain.


	5. Incalculable

_Incalculable

* * *

_

The outline he traces frames her every curve. The movement is mechanical, lacking fluidity and grace; he is constantly correcting his mistakes with brushes of his fingertips, trying again and again until he gets it just so. She feels a warm shiver escape from her core as his eyes flash towards her with some shadowy and hazy passion. His motions never stop, never cease; he's doing it for her, he tells himself, and he cannot settle for anything less than perfection.

His movements slow; she sees a bead of sweat trickle down his brow as his eyes flicker shut with exhaustion. They've been going for hours, learning to see and feel each other. She feels sweat start to gather on her brow in sympathy, and suddenly she's exhausted too, even though she's just lying there.

The warmth of his gaze leaves her for a second, and the goosebumps on her skin prickle. Jealousy, unfounded and misleading, stabs her in the back. This is too intimate for him to look away, and to think that his attention is elsewhere sharpens her appreciation of him to a knife edge. Suddenly, she sees every motion, every glance, every blink, and false significance towers in all of them.

She's aware, as she shifts position without him having to ask, that it's early in their relationship to be doing things like _this. _She doesn't care, particularly; baptism by fire has always held a delicious sense of panic for her. He licks his lips without realising it, and she yearns, whole hearted and unashamed, that he'd find a better use for it. But alas, his tongue retreats behind his lips; she swears to retrieve it later, whether he likes it or not.

Another brief and mechanical swish, and his eyes are back on hers. She sees what she feels reciprocated there; a deep, burning heat. But he seems almost taken aback by her intensity- or is he taken aback by his own? She wonders, but again decides that she doesn't care. She's tempted to stop playing around, and instruct him on how to do it right, but she knows that he needs to find it out on his own, with deft movements of fingertip and thigh.

The imperceptible signal in his eyes appears again, and she moves with intuition. Her youthful muscles support her slight frame as she manoeuvres, and she can almost feel his eyes burning a hole into her back as she twists and folds into a more enjoyable pose.

This marks the final straw. He can go no longer, and releases wistfully. A brief sigh, and his shoulders fall; he can endure no more of this pleasant torture.

She stalks over to his stool, not bothering with modesty. She leans on his shoulders, appraising the exercise. On the canvas is her, over and over, unprotected, unclothed, unashamed. His brushstrokes are still too mechanical. She smiles, though. It might not have much value, but to them, it is symbol of their priceless mutual trust.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know. It's another somewhat sensual fake-out in the same collection, not very original, must try harder. This actually goes out to my artist friend who inspired it; he was saying how he was worried about doing nude studies at art college. I asked if it was because he'd be drawing strangers, and he said that he'd rather draw strangers than someone he knew, because it was less intimate. I wondered what it would be like for someone to draw something very intimately, and that's kinda where this came from.


	6. Wind Chime

_Wind-chime

* * *

_

Of all the things he loves about Yuffie, her noises are the ones he loves most. He doesn't quite know why, although he thinks it might be because she's so very loud when she makes them. She knows no restraint, and a part of him wishes feebly that he could be so brave and unashamed.

In the mornings, she snorts. In the evenings, she snores. He contemplates how one little letter changes the composition of the word and the sound so completely. Her snorts are full of grumpiness and derision; her snores are full of softness and laughter in dreams. And it's strange, he thinks, that the snoring is the more pleasurable and comforting of the two noises, and yet it's the one she resolutely denies making.

"I do _not _snore, Vincent Valentine." she snorts, taking another mouthful of coffee and wincing. "And how many times have I told you to use double cream?"

She tuts immediately after she says this. In truth, he knows _exactly_ how to make her coffee, and he used single cream on purpose. He just wanted to hear her tut, the brief exhalation of air that he's trying so hard to understand.

He could just ask her to tut, but something stops him. It would make him seem strange, the rational part of him says. The irrational part, which is usually correct when it comes to dealing with Yuffie, knows that she will simply smile and comply, and that's why he doesn't ask. If he doesn't ask, it almost becomes a game to get her to make all the noises he so enjoys. And, in playing the game as dangerously and as stealthily as he can, it's as if he's taking one step closer to being as brave and loud as her.

But, to play this game requires sacrifice. Which is why, when Yuffie has retired for her shower, he quickly takes up the paper and looks for _anything_ regarding the adoption of kittens. This is because he knows that whenever Yuffie hears an animal make a sound, she feels compelled to imitate it. And he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing Yuffie meow.

He knows, however, that this is not exactly the most noble motive for adopting a kitten. Which is why he's still deep in thought, his pen poised over the adverts page, when Yuffie drapes herself around his shoulders and asks him what he's doing.

"Motorbikes." he says, looking around at the other ads for an excuse.

"_Awe_some! Get two. We can make our own biker gang. You've already got the leather trousers." she whoops, before walking off laughing at her own joke.

He smiles. Her laugh is like the wind-chimes that hang around their house. Not because of the sound, because that would be ridiculous, but because it takes only the slightest breeze for Yuffie to fill the house with sweet giggles.

Smiling in resolution, he picks up the phone to enquire about those kittens.

* * *

A/N: I had to put something about kittens in here, because my cat has just given birth to three tiny babies. They look more like mice than cats, but they're so very cute. It's incredible to see how quickly our cat has become a mother- it's as if she's been looking after them all her life, and she knows exactly what to do. It really is breathtaking.


	7. War

_War

* * *

_

It had been a long time since she'd stood with a gun against her temple, taunting, _daring _them to pull the trigger. She was a frickin' ninja, and she wasn't scared of a guy with a gun. It was almost comforting to feel the familiar sensation of cool metal against her skin. It was more like normality, or whatever passed for normality these days. She remembered the first time she felt it.

"_Thief."__  
The barrel of the gun was pressed against her forehead, letting her see the cool and deadly intent in his red eyes. There is no materia in the weapon, and it's her fault._  
"_Yeah, I'm a thief. I'm scum. What do you want from me? Haven't you got sins of your own?" she mocks. She can't hide the fact that she's trembling. She can't hide the way her pupils dilate, or the very real kick of fear that's surging in her stomach. All she can do is hide behind bravado, false courage._  
"_Give me an excuse. Just one." he says. She can see one eye looking at her, one eye on the sight of the gun, making sure the bullet will hit her just so. It occurs to her that he's a freak. She says so.__  
Something hardens inside of him. Something that demands subjugation from others as some sort of recompense for the horrors that he's experienced. It is that, and not him, that pulls the trigger. Or so he would like to believe._

_The gun clicks. The chamber is empty. With all the bravery she can muster, she turns silently and walks away. It is her first true brush with death. Her head is held high, and he is baffled._

And ever since then, she and Vincent Valentine have been at war. They hate each other, with a passion, and the best part is that Cloud and company haven't even noticed. Their battles, waged with harsh words, always take place at night, with the moon as the only umpire.

In fact, she enjoys it. She's affecting him, breaking down that cold exterior to reveal the molten rage beneath. And that rage belongs to her, and only her. It's sick and wrong, but it's war and that's how you play. Capture, conquer, torture. The end.

Somewhere, her perverse enjoyment of the situation ends. Somehow, it's no longer her being held hostage by a two bit mugger outside of a bar. The act of pressing a gun to her head is suddenly intimate, profane, taking the memories of Vincent and spitting on them. Only his gun is allowed on her temple.

A shot fires. She grins as the captor falls, and the warm muzzle of a gun presses against her forehead. The darkest pits of her heart surge in triumph.

"You're mine." he says, darkly. The war goes on.

_You're mine. _Perhaps she was. Love stealthily possesses you. At least hate is honest about it. In between, she waits for the next bullet.

* * *

A/N: As I promised angst and whatnot, I decided to go with a dark theme for War. In the end, I started to examine a facet of the relationship that might be less comforting that the ones I've examined so far. And yet, somehow, it doesn't seem too OOC to me; Yuffie has a natural edge of possessiveness, being a thief, that could develop into something darker. And Vince is naturally dark enough to have these tendencies, at times.

Haha, joke. I fail at justifying this. I just wanted to write something a little darker. Call it an experiment.


	8. Interlude

_Interlude

* * *

_

He hardly knows why he's here. It must be some form of occasion, because that's the only time that AVALANCHE convene. Perhaps it's Christmas, he reasons. Everyone is drunk enough. It might have been, if there were only a tree, and some presents, and perhaps a few delicate flakes of snow. And something about a pack of reindeer, or something like that. He's forgotten, in that dark coffin, quite what Christmas is, or how to celebrate it.

Maybe Halloween? Halloween he remembers, because as a child he used to don a miniature blue suit and pretend he was a Turk. He didn't do trick or treat. He did Treat or I'll Break Your Kneecaps. And who would've guessed that years later, he'd be living out his Halloween disguise as everyday life? Irony has sharpened the memory.

But it isn't Halloween, because no plastic horns adorn Barret's head, Cloud has no bolts sticking out from his neck, and Yuffie has not made the less-than-tasteful decision to dress up (or 'cosplay', as she terms it) as Sephiroth.

And gods forbid that it be Valentine's day. He's sick of Cid making drunken puns on his name, and he's very sick indeed of Yuffie's insistence that, as he is wearing red and has a gun, he is the modern-day Cupid. And he fears the annual tiptoeing around Tifa as she looks wistfully after Cloud, who at times looks wistfully at Tifa, at times looks wistfully at a picture of Aerith, and at far more frequent times looks wistfully at his pint of beer, wishing it would magically refill itself without him having to stagger over to the bar.

Maybe, then, it's one of those no-name holidays that no one really observes, but is a good excuse for a lashing of alcohol. He can't blame AVALANCHE if it is. They, as a group, have been through enough that maybe excessive alcohol is justified for them, at least once in a while. He was presented with a beer upon entry, but he allowed it to sit unnoticed as he brooded in his corner booth, until Yuffie finally put it to some use by throwing it all over Cid.

Maybe it's one of the holidays dedicated to them. He hasn't bothered to learn the dates, or even the names of these holidays. All he knows is that sometime in the summer, he will be mobbed by the press if he dares venture into the city.

Yuffie, drunk as a clam, staggers over.

"Enjoyin' the interlude, Vinny-vin-vin-vince?" she slurs.

"Interlude?"

"Yeah...Party ended, sourpants. We're having another one tomorrow, though." she winks conspiratorially.

"Why?"

"To celebrate the fact that you turned up for this one. Duh."

No one knows what's around the corner. This period of drunken friends and forgotten holidays may simply be an interlude between two periods of darkness. It would be folly to waste it.

With that in mind, he tentatively asks Yuffie for a beer. She throws it at him.

* * *

A/N: No idea about this one. Honestly, I read it afterwards and went "What?" Hope you enjoy it, nonetheless.


	9. Cuisine

There is nothing that Yuffie enjoys quite so much as the opportunity to _not_ have lunch with Vincent Valentine.

It isn't, as many believe, because he lives in a coffin buried under a mansion where ghastly experiments have taken place. Yuffie has grown accustomed to such surroundings in her quest to annoy the _one_ man she knows who always carries a gun. (It has, however, ruined her appreciation of ghost trains.)

And it isn't, as many believe, because the man himself is a silent, brooding ex-Turk who believes himself to be responsible for everything that goes wrong in the world at large. She's grown accustomed to him, too, and she can say she has no worries about his sanity. (Although she makes sure to tease him about nooses and razors whenever possible, often in the poorest taste.)

It is, surprisingly, because of the same reason she never frequents Cid's house for dinner. It's because the food is terrible.

In Vincent's strangely monk-like lifestyle (he at least has the vows of chastity and silence under his belt), he maintains strict routine with regards to mealtimes. It comforts him to have one area of the modern world that he can control. And he breaks his routine for no man.

At breakfast, he has a bowl of muesli. He doesn't know why, but it seems fitting for him. He's tried bran flakes and they just aren't the same. And he cannot comprehend the mysteries of Wheetabix. (He does not even consider the possibility of bacon and eggs- mainly because he has no working refrigerator, and he has no desire to spend his time in a mansion that smells like rotting pigs and decayed yolk.)

For dinner, he stays true to the tried and tested ratio of meat and two veg. This means he must travel to the shop each and every day, which has the pleasant side-effect of exposing him to fresh air once a day. It scares the locals as to why he buys cuts of raw meat every day (they imagine him to be feeding the mansion's monsters), but he talks only to the grocer, who does not enjoy his company but enjoys his money.

For lunch, he makes sandwiches.

And Yuffie wouldn't mind the prospect of eating sandwiches with Vincent, were it not for the fact that the _only_ thing more leathery than the bread he buys is the cheese he puts in it. (The only thing more leathery than the cheese is his trousers, and she steadfastly resists any and all urges to cut _those _into slices and serve them on crackers.)

However, when she receives his 'telegrams' ("_Gawd, learn to text, Vince!_") she sighs, and prepare her stomach for yet another injection of raw tastelessness. She realises that he's making an effort, and that it's important to him.

She also realises that she owes him an invite to lunch. And she has a recipe for Super Spicy Dragon Fire Soup that she's been _dying_ to test on someone...

* * *

A/N: Bow to the pointlessness of this piece.


	10. Missive

_Dear Vince,_

_ How did you lose your phone? Letters suck. I mean, honestly. I'm a ninja. I hold shuriken, not pens. Still, Teef says that if we don't write letter we'll all lose contact and you'll get all depressed and you'll trigger the apocalypse with your emo-radiation. (Well, she didn't say it in those words. She said it in Tifa language. But I translated it into something more awesome.)_

_What d'ya write about in letters, anyway? I mean, eew. I have a huge piece of paper and nothing to say. It's like school, or doing WRO paperwork. Well, write me back, okay?_

_From Yuffie_

_P.S: Btw and fyi, Cloud says hi. He also says that Cid wants to take you bowling, but he thinks you've got enough balls in your love life.

* * *

_

_To Yuffie Kisaragi,_

_In regards to your letter:_

_I do not understand your postscript. Please clarify. _

_Sincerely, Vincent Valentine_

_

* * *

_

_Dear Vince,_

_You have GOT to be kidding me. What, you want a translation? Btw: By the way. Fyi: For your information. And I was making a funny joke. Funny: Something which incites laughter. Joke: You. Hah hah. _

_Anyway, Cloud actually did say hello. He's really busy recently, but he says he's gonna stop by at your place if he gets chance. It'll be like a sleepover, huh? A big emo pyjama party, complete with makeovers and pillow fights. Y'know, I might drop by for a visit sometime, too. I could use a laugh. Tifa's working me like a donkey, I swear. A young, sexy donkey. You know you're turned on by that image. But keep your pervertedness to yourself when I visit, ok?_

_From Yuffie_

_P.S: Got any letters from Red yet? Are they covered in slobber? Teef says that letters are really romantic- imagine Nanaki coming on to you!

* * *

_

_To Yuffie Kisaragi,_

_In regards to your letter:_

_I see. I am unfamiliar with some of your abbreviations, although I am aware what 'funny' and 'joke' refer to. (And it is not me.)_

_Regardless of whether Cloud arrives at my estate, I doubt he will stay the night. I would imagine that Shinra Mansion has somewhat unfortunate memories for him. I do not wear pyjamas._

_Your theories regarding donkeys are completely unfounded._

_Sincerely, Vincent Valentine_

_Postscript: Letter-writing is considered romantic in many cultures, and the phenomenon is well documented in literature.

* * *

_

_To Yuffie Kisaragi,_

_I have not received a response to my letter. I fear mis-postage._

_Sincerely, Vincent Valentine

* * *

_

_To Yuffie Kisaragi,_

_Still no response. Cid tells me he hasn't heard from you. I'm growing concerned. Please contact me. _

_Sincerely, Vincent Valentine.

* * *

_

_Dear Vince,_

_Sorry. I've been travelling for a little while. I'll be coming up for Nibelheim in about a day or so. Got in trouble with Tifa. Told you I'd visit, didn't I?_

_It's kinda cute that you're getting worried about me. Either you're lonelier than I gave you credit for, or you're taking the whole 'romantic letters' thing way too seriously!_

_Love from Yuffie_

_xx_

_

* * *

_A/N: Another pointless experiment._  
_


	11. Rebuttal

_Rebuttal

* * *

_

He breaks fiercely over the cobbled streets, a wave of potent rage that swamps passers-by, but pools around the feet of the one it's directed at. The waiter, an unlucky fool, stands like a rock out to sea- not yet consumed by the tides, but surrounded and without a hope. And despite the fact that there's only one angry customer, and that angry customer hasn't even _said_ anything, the waiter feels overwhelmed. And then, it begins.

As Vincent donates a healthy slice of his mind to the Ye Olde Junon Cake Shoppe and anyone stupid enough to go near it, Yuffie smiles laconically. The waiter, who's never seen her before, explains that he most definitely _wasn't _staring at her chest, and that under no circumstances would he ever 'tap that'. But bullets, experiments and having his heart practically ripped out by a sadistic Tsviet didn't stop Vincent Valentine, so a little thing like the truth never really had a chance.

Yuffie feels bad for the waiter. Well, no, she doesn't, but she sympathises with him. How many times has she stood toe to toe with Vince, hearing him rant on morals and principles and other junk that isn't going to help her steal stuff? Still, he's suffering for a good cause- her amusement, among other things. As Vincent stalks from the café, Yuffie folds herself out of her chair and winks at the waiter, as if to say that she's done him a massive favour.

And she has. Not only has she ignored the fact that he said he wouldn't tap her (normally, she would have kicked him in the crotch so hard that he'd have two new Adam's apples), but she's saved his life, in a roundabout kind of way. Because, with his mystery and his sternness and his calm in battle, few people realise that Vincent Valentine is a very angry man.

With her penetrating eye, Yuffie knows where his anger comes from. Mainly, Hojo. Sure, Vincent may have wanted to repent for his sins, but the main reason he got up was to blow a hole in that scientist's forehead, and maybe then go and blow one in Sephiroth's because he was related. For thirty years, a storm of rage brewed in a coffin-sized teacup, and just because Hojo and his offspring were dead didn't mean that it was dissipated. Deepground hadn't helped that much, either- it only added fuel to a dying fire, making the anger flare up again.

The only way to relieve the anger is to express it. And whilst Vincent being angry is _bad_, Vincent being mega super _mondo_ angry and going on a murderous Galian Beast rampage is worse. Mainly because it's summer and Vincent is moulting, never mind Galian. Thus, Yuffie's victimisation of innocent waiters.

She thinks it's cute, actually, that Vince defends her honour. But it pales in comparison to the fact that when Vincent storms from the café, they leave without paying. And there's no cake like free cake.

* * *

A/N: Yup. In the course of this little piece, Yuffie goes from selfish to selfless to selfish again. Go figure.


	12. Needles

_Needles

* * *

_

Like many people, Yuffie doesn't like the dentist's. For one, there's always that strange, sterile smell that permeates _everywhere_, even the waiting room and the bathroom and twenty feet outside the building. It's so strong that it drowns out the perfume of the woman sitting behind the counter, who's either blonde and attractive in a way that just _reeks_ of cynical, sexist marketing techniques, or is a podgy, middle aged and nice in a secretary kind of way, but who also takes five minutes to type her own name into a computer and holds up the phone line talking to her grandson. And then there's the dentist.

The dentist is always strange. It's also always a man, for reasons no one can understand, but which probably have something to do with the fact that a dentist is one of only a few members of society who get paid to put on latex gloves, insert their fingers into a warm, moist hole, then stick a drill in and turn it on. It's always a faintly violating experience.

That's not even getting on to needles. She shudders even to think of them. Honestly, who thought that was a good idea? "Let's get a sharp, pointy object, fill it with who-knows-what, and insert it into somewhere soft and fleshy." Just no.

Which is why, when Yuffie is called to receive treatment for yet another cavity, she brings a secret weapon. She brings Vincent.

At first, she doesn't really see him as a secret weapon. Really, it's just that his cloak is all musty and she can bury her nose in it to block out that weird sterile smell. However, it does amuse her in some small way to see him trying to read magazines with his metal arm. Especially as he forgoes the lad's mags that are 'hidden' under a potted plant, and goes directly for the obscure hobbyist magazines that you can only find in the dentist's (possibly in the hairdresser's). And seeing Vincent Valentine try to read Sewing And Embroidery Monthly is a rare treat.

However, his secret-weapon-ness is immediately activated when he follows her upstairs to the dental studio. To her great surprise, the Dentist looks up, looks at Vincent, looks down, looks back at Vincent, and then looks terrified. He invites them in with a stutter, instead of doing the whole 'Wizard Of Oz' thing where he tells her to lie down because he is The Dentist and he Knows Best. Then he escapes to find x-rays which were never taken.

"You see," Vincent says when she asks, "I refuse to take needles. After Hojo's experimentation, they have...unfortunate associations for me."

"...So what?" she asks, thinking idly about bubblegum now that her dentist's appointment is all but cancelled.

"I merely elect to take the procedures without anaesthetic, of course." he sniffs. "If they refuse, I ask them if they'll take a look at Galian's teeth afterwards."

She laughs so hard her teeth hurt.

* * *

A/N: So, next time you visit the Dentist, make sure to remember what I said about fingers, drills, and warm, moist holes! Also, halfway done with the collection, if I'm not mistaken.


	13. Crossfire

_Crossfire

* * *

_

Somewhere, somehow, a wire in someone's head has become unplugged, a message has been returned to sender and a word has disappeared in the eternal game of Chinese Whispers that makes up society. The world is a complex web of information, most of it worthless and all of it bewildering. And at the centre of that web sits a spider, who spins new strands of false data and places them where people will find and follow them, eventually leading them to a place they cannot leave.

Yuffie Kisaragi is going to swat that spider.

Because it's that spider that keeps yanking the threads to pull Vincent away from her. It's that spider that's orchestrating a macabre information puppet show, with the WRO as the main character and the fat spider itself as the antagonist. And Yuffie's afraid, because she knows that the play will be a tragedy, that Romeo will fall and Juliet will be torn with grief, all because Romeo can't break the strings of data that hold him in thrall.

Love and hate are pretty close. Both are four letters, one syllable, two vowels and two consonants. And Yuffie doesn't know if she's in love with Vince, _not yet_, but it's so easy to turn her love-that-might-be-love into hate, and to direct it at a nameless, faceless criminal sitting in a digital web. It feels like she's manning a cannon, switching ammunition to suit whoever gets in the way.

All she knows is that, Vince or Spiderdude, love or hate, hit or miss, she's got _force_. And she's gonna take that force and she's gonna yank Spiderdude's web right out from under him, like a cheap rug. She's going to tear it apart, string by string. And if she finds Vince, stuck and struggling like a fly, she's going to rip him free and then throttle him, because love and hate are a lot closer together than she thought they were.

Somewhere, somehow, a word has disappeared in the eternal game of Chinese Whispers that makes up society. So not one person in the criminal syndicate that the WRO was hunting knew that Yuffie Kisaragi was going to burst through the door, hurling shuriken with haunting precision. No one could halt her advance, her feet and fist flying so fast that not a soul managed to draw their gun. And no one could know that her confrontation with her Spider would be short, sharp, and ever-so-satisfying.

A month later, Vincent surveys the scene. The WRO investigators are flummoxed, but he knows better. A set of familiar looking shuriken wounds on the boss give him a trail of information made for him and him alone, and he decides to follow it, wherever it may lead.

Yuffie yanks her thread, and loads her cannon. She still doesn't know if what's inside is love or hate. It's a secret. All that she knows is that it's got Vincent's name on it, and she doesn't want anyone else caught in her crossfire.

* * *

A/N: Mm, I'm incredibly unsure about this. I've been avoiding the prompt for weeks.


	14. Reality

_Reality

* * *

_

Reality doesn't exist for humans. That's one of the first things he learned in his confinement. You can only view the world from your own mind, and if something is wrong with that mind, it's like looking at the world through a warped lens. But it's not just the image that twists; it's no illusion. If you change your mind, you change the very world in which you live.

So, reality is a moot point. It really doesn't matter what exists outside your mind, because your mind is where you're staying. But, without a concept of reality, doubt grows and festers like mould. And the mind changes, to become an altogether blacker place.

He's not sure that all that happened in the past few years- Sephiroth, the Remnants, Deepground- is real. He could just be dreaming in his coffin, waiting for someone to awaken him. His mind still wrestles with the concepts, in the end falling back upon itself.

The second thing he learned in his coffin was that the mind is always changing. If you put something into the mind, it will change it. These changes will also cause changes, leading to a never-ending cycle.

His body has been taken apart and reconstructed. Hojo has put monsters inside his very soul. That's what he's been told, by records and data. But because he knows this, his world changes. The monsters inside him become more concrete, more real. More threatening. And because he realises that they're more real, he hides himself away even more. His world doubles back on itself. He wonders what exactly is real.

It's a question, a riddle that has no answer. He can smash his mind against it all he likes, but it will still tower above him like a wall of steel.

His fingers ghost across her arms. He wants to reach out and grasp her hand for comfort, but she's still wearing gloves, and he craves the feel of her skin. In fact, she's still clothed, which is somewhat unusual. Her head is resting on his chest, and she burbles in half-snores. The nape of her neck is exposed, and her hair is falling onto his stomach and tickling him. He brushes it away with one hand, and she sleepily mutters something about bread. For a moment, he's envious. He'd give almost anything to be able to dream of simple things like bread and quilt covers and pranks, rather than the complex, spiralling mechanisms of philosophy and reality. But then her fingers twitch, and philosophy suddenly takes a backseat to the tingles dancing across his skin.

And, all at once, he finds the answer to his riddle, thanks to the warm woman in his arms. And he immediately feels stupid, because it's such a universal answer. It's a fearless retort to almost any question and almost any statement. He tests it on his tongue, and asks himself the question in his mind.

"_Is this reality, or merely a passing dream?"_

"_Who cares?"

* * *

_

A/N: Because the greatest revelations are always found in bed. Honestly, I didn't feel like I was able to capture the density of the themes here, but I had to try sometime. Maybe one day, when I've gotten better, I'll give it another shot.


	15. Ardent

_Ardent

* * *

_

Ticker tape and confetti cloud the air like a swarm of locusts. And frankly, she would probably be happier if it _were _locusts. Her fingernails are pickaxes in the heel of her palm, points driving into the skin so hard they draw blood.

"I can't believe this." she seethes to Tifa. Tifa stays silent, but she's wearing her fighting gloves, and that always means bad things. The crowd buffet them forwards, shepherding them to the security barriers and the armed police, as if they know how much it'll make them suffer.

Reno is waltzing around with the police. He looks like he could be an ex-cop, with his electromag rod fastened to his hip like a baton. He has the same cocky, power driven attitude as a bent cop, too, always willing to do whatever it takes to put himself in front.

Tsung and Elena are at the checkpoints, making very sure no-one has any weapons. Except for Yuffie and Tifa. You do _not_ frisk the women of AVALANCHE, no matter how high profile the event is, or how combat-trained you are.

They're probably out there doing grunt work for a reason. Tifa thinks it's because they have moral objections to the event; Tsung and Elena always were the nice ones. Yuffie things it's because Tsung gets bored working behind the scenes, and Elena will take any opportunity to try and impress him.

Rude's up on the platform with Reeve. The black sunglasses and the chrome dome make him the an intimidating bodyguard on any level. Reeve's squirming, his face drawn into a frown. The commissioner of the WRO is probably the least impressed at the turn of events. But he's obliged to be there, up with Rude and the Big Man himself.

Rufus Shinra. The treacherous name rankles in her gut. They thought he'd changed, but no. He'd been manipulative all the way through, even when they'd been dealing with the Remnants, withholding information until it was most profitable. And he'd done a blinder, this time. Let the WRO sweep away Shinra's Deepground fiasco and save the world, then show himself as the one who made it happen. Blame the 'Old' Shinra on his father. A-plus-plus for acting and strategy, there. And the people accepted it, and threw him a big old welcome back parade.

"_Yuffie. We're in position."_ her walky-talky crackles. It's Vincent, at last.

"About time. Where's Cloud and Barret?" she asks, breathing low into the box.

"_They're ready. We'll wait for the President's speech."_

They don't actually know there'll be a speech. But Rufus could never resist one.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." he begins, with a flourish. Bait taken. They allow him five minutes of worthless promises, until he draws to his conclusion.

"And so, the triumph of my WRO shows one thing: anyone can change the world, if they try hard enough."

On the roof, Vincent adjusts his sniper rifle one more time, breathes, and prepares to change the world.

* * *

A/N: This leads directly into _Better_.


	16. Better

_Better

* * *

_

It's the moment of hesitation, the fraction of a second when the finger struggles against the trigger. That's the moment it all breaks down to, whether you can shoot or not before the opportunity slips away. Vincent Valentine is a monster and a murderer, and he's never let an opportunity escape him yet.

As his finger tightens on the trigger, Rude begins to move, as if by premonition. The sunlight reflects from his sunglasses as he turns and runs towards the President.

Like thunder, the gunshot crashes through the air. It's like a vengeful god has thrown down judgement, and the crowd becomes a hive of fear. But it's too late for that. That golden, elongated second spins on just a little longer before Vincent realises that he's hit the wrong man.

Time shatters. Cloud bursts forwards, blade akimbo. His face is as pale as bone, his eyes black with rage. Rude's different, the red flowing from his chest like a starburst, his arms and legs nothing more than meat. Rufus is rolling, rolling behind the desk, and Reeve's taking cover-

_Phht_. Yuffie's kunai leaps from its hiding place and into Reno's shoulder. The blood sprays out, as red as his hair, no, redder. Tifa and Elena are fighting, crushing, punching, and every sound is a broken bone, every noise is a shattered limb. Tsung pulls his gun, but Barret barrels into him like a bear, one metal arm whirring.

_**Anyone can**_

The crowd scream like animals, confused and broken by the violence, the blood-

_**change the world**_

Rufus springs up, gun in hand, looking for Reeve with wrath in his eyes. There's blood on him, but it's not his, it's not his, it's Rude's, and Rude doesn't have any to spare anymore-

_**if they try hard enough**_

Vincent's muscles snap into action. His fingers fumble with the bullet. The rifle topples. He doesn't know why he's doing this. He doesn't remember. Why? Is it for justice? For vengeance?

_**but**_

A shot fires and Reeve's down, one arm reduced to mere meat. Rufus wastes no time, flicking the gun back and reloading. Reeve rolls, but Rufus follows, his eyes looking coldly for the target. Cloud's coming, but the crowd thrashes against him. Yuffie snaps her kunai from Reno's shoulder, throwing away the man like he were a doll, but the soldiers are closing her down. They won't get there in time, Reeve's going to-

_**can anyone**_

There's no time, no time. Tifa's on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from her mouth, but she spits out the broken tooth and gets up before Elena can capitalise. Barret's taken a bullet, but Tsung is bleeding like never before. The bullet's in the rifle-  
_Reeve is screaming-  
Yuffe is running-  
Cloud is fighting-  
Tifa is breaking-  
Elena is howling-  
Tsung is dodging-  
Barret is roaring-  
Reno is struggling-  
Rude is dying-  
Rufus is aiming-_

_Vincent shoots._

Anyone can change the world. But no one can change the past.

_**make it better?

* * *

**_

A/N: This is a direct continuation of Ardent.


	17. Never

_Never

* * *

_

Tea always tasted better on a Saturday. Mainly because it wasn't her making it. When it came to breakfast in bed, he was only marginally less talented than a butler, and he was usually a lot less dressed. Which was a plus.

Of course, like all things, they'd had problems sorting it out. At first, they tried having a rota (he made breakfast on Saturdays, her on Sundays), but they quickly found out that generally, Yuffie was in no condition to make breakfast on a Sunday morning. The first time, she'd come upstairs carrying a glass of OJ and a spring onion, and told him to get stuck in.

He was quick to accept the fact that if he wanted breakfast he'd have to get it himself. But he was slightly less quick on the uptake of Yuffie's appetite. For a man who had surprisingly little taste for food, it was surprising to learn that two slices of toast _and_ a whole rasher of bacon weren't enough to sate the hunger of his ninja.

Likewise, he had problems deciphering some of her jokes. Such as the time he'd asked her how she preferred her eggs in the morning, and she'd responded with a giggly 'unfertilised'. This had been the start of a day long quest involving a long string of local farmers and Yuffie going very hungry indeed.

She had had to accustom herself to him, too. Like the fact that he even ate his toast (all two slices of it) with a knife and fork, cutting off teeny-tiny bites and then placing them delicately into his mouth. It wasn't so much of a problem, but for the fact that she finished her breakfast long before he did, and the urge to steal his lone rasher of bacon was incredibly tempting.

Then there was his taste in drinks. She'd originally got him blood oranges (for making vampire jokes with, of course), but he'd outright refused to drink it. In the morning, he would only drink straight milk, or tea if he was feeling particularly adventurous. When she asked why, he'd provided her with an explanation of his nutritional needs and how very incongruous orange juice was to them.

On weekdays, however, their breakfast routines were interrupted by work; despite Vincent's worries of nutrition and the growling of Yuffie's belly, more often than not they would have to simply grab a bagel and eat on the go. Which meant that nigh on every Shadowfox vehicle in the WRO fleet had bagel crumbs in then.

Still, she thought, it was worth the occasional trouble it caused to set up a regular breakfast in bed routine. It brought them closer as a couple, or something, and had the benefit of her not having to get up in the mornings.

But her favourite part is when he ascends the stairs, feet tripping gently over the carpet, balancing her favourite breakfast tray with a transient smile. She never thought she'd have him quite so _whipped_.


	18. Sneer

_Sneer

* * *

_

It's the ridges in her nose that do it, the way the skin draws back in folds, like a dog's.

"Useless, aren't you?" she mutters, contempt singeing the sing-song voice. Then she flares her nostrils, and there it is- the folds, the ridges, the snarl. To him, it's like visual nails on a chalkboard, the very worst thing he can imagine.

"Like you could do better," he frowns. With a dark tinkle of laughter, she grabs his hand and guides it in her own. And he wins.

"Come on, Vince. Don't let me down," she yawns. The yawn irons out her creases for just a second, but they spring back like rubber.

He grunts, ending the conversation. For once, he wishes he hadn't. People can talk without words, and now she's berating him with her expression, her vague little mannerisms. It's like a mind game- does she really mean to hold her drink so tightly, or is it natural? What is the significance, if there is any at all? And what about the way she's standing? It beguiles him to no end.

"Spin," she says, so he spins. No luck. She sneers again, and even though he was following her advice, he still feels at fault. It's strange- generally, he appoints himself judge, jury, and (too often) the executioner. But he seems to have ceded these positions to a girl who needs to tiptoe to kiss his nose, who's less than half his age, and who doesn't even take life seriously.

"Like this," she whispers, grabbing his wrist again. Her fingernails dig into the skin. With her hand guiding his, he again executes the movement flawlessly; it goes from a fumble to a piece of art.

Again, the creases pop out of her nose, but they return as he tries again. And again. He wouldn't mind those creases, but for the fact that they make her look like an angry dog. And whilst Yuffie was frequently angry, he took great exception to her being called a dog.

"Come on. You can beat Omega Weapon but you can't repeat a simple wrist movement? Why so lame, Vinnie?" she taunts.

Exasperated, he throws the movement out without caring about it, and starts to march back to explain that, actually, wrist movements are not so easy when one hasn't been using one's command of them to break into houses and steal their milk instead of actually going to the shop and _buying_ a pint-

He is surprised, in the middle of his rant, to hear a crash and a topple.

"Phew. Knew you'd get better eventually. Now, watch this," she smirks, grabbing a ball and effortlessly curling it into the pins. Bowling, whilst complex to him, is simple to her.

Her sneer is gone, for now; she mentally puts it on the shelf. She doesn't like doing it (wrinkles her nose), but there's no better way to teach someone than to get them angry about it.


	19. Dreams

_Dreams

* * *

_

He remembers the days from back when he was a Turk, resplendent in a blue suit bathed in blood. Back then, he didn't have 'dreams'; dreams were insipid, airy, unreliable. He'd known men in the slums who'd dreamt they'd won the lottery, and played it every day thereafter, pouring money into scraps of paper that never gave any return. Never once did they dream of the _realities_, like the actual chances of winning, or the fact that the lottery was fixed anyway. They only saw the objective, the end prize.

That was why he had objectives instead. Objectives were concrete, like an order from oneself. You had to appraise, gather information, make decisions- not blindly hope, like those great fatalist lottery players. A dream is something you desire, but an objective was something you moved towards. That was how he saw it, back then.

And then, the Calamity. Lucrecia, Hojo, and himself; a triangle of subversion that all but destroyed those long-cherished objectives. How could he work towards something, when to do so was to work away from Lucrecia? How you could pursue the future, but preserve the present? He didn't know. In the three way battle between him and the two scientists, he suddenly found himself fighting reality, too; that was all Hojo needed to gain the upper hand.

He dreamt, then, for a long time. He dreamt of many things, all of them without shape or finality, all of them changing him just by existing. He dreamt of salvation, and knew it was unattainable; he dreamt of light, and knew it to be a lie.

When he awoke, he lived as one dreaming. Belief came unwillingly, in battle-scars and tragedy. He stopped, and felt, and waited, waited for this new, unusually lucid dream to end. But it didn't. Only when he slept, when he slipped back into the realms of hallucinations and formless torture, could he believe he had been awake.

His dreams eventually gave way, once again, to objectives. Kill Hojo. Kill Sephiroth. Atone. Surrounded by desperation, he became more merciless, more mechanical, more focused than ever before. He didn't care for the present, or the people in it; he could finally move once again to the _future_.

Eventually, the dreams of his comrades, and his own objectives, became a reality; and he found that the future he had secured, he did not want. All that time, he had really been fighting in some vain attempt to reclaim- or at least balance out- the past. But the past was somewhere he could never go, except in dreams.

Life went on. His own objectives were meaningless, so he simply watched. He watched Cloud, racked with guilt. He watched Tifa, swarmed with doubt. And he watched _Yuffie_, burning with single minded determination, working to secure what she could in the new and ferocious world. He dreamt of her, her objectives and her dreams, her trials and her triumphs. And he dreamt, just once, that he could be like her.


	20. Wanderlust

_Wanderlust

* * *

_

Questing was too noble, travelling too bland, and trudging too depressive; traipsing was a good word for what they were doing, and foolishness a good explanation of why they were doing it. It was her wish to see how the world had changed since they'd saved it, to retread footsteps she'd left years before and note the changes.

"Come on, Vince. It'll be relaxing. Like a picnic. 'Cept with less food," she had whistled, tossing a pan into her backpack.

"We have _work_ to do, Yuffie. We can't just depart like thieves in the night," he'd grumbled in reply, packing a rucksack regardless of his own complaints.

Unfortunately, departing like thieves in the night was exactly Yuffie's style. They left without a word, leaving Reeve and the WRO to flounder in their wake (or so Yuffie liked to think. In truth, Reeve did very well by himself. There were fewer and fewer combat missions as time went on). And, just like that, they were on an adventure, travelling the world with nothing but a few tents and some cheap tinned food to keep them company.

Of course, there were some things they couldn't have predicted. Like Yuffie's strange propensity for falling into monster nests. On a lucky day, all that'd happen is that she'd step in something nasty and squirm a little. On a bad day, they'd walk into the next town with a limp and a case of rabies.

But it wasn't all bad. It was nostalgic, in a way, to see places they'd been before; to see a ridge they both knew and exchange knowing looks, to nod reverently to a tree that hadn't quite survived the ravages of Meteor or Deepground. He felt phantom aches when he trudged past places he had once lain cradled in her arms, painted with a fresh sheen of sticky red blood, so full of potions and tranquillisers that he didn't know if he hallucinated the ghostly brush of her fingertips or not. He found himself thanking her silently as they walked past their old battlegrounds, the places where they'd snatched each other's lives back from the brink.

But, eventually, the time came to return home. And return they did, full of appreciation (some would say awe) for the world they had fought for. It was strange how much they'd missed the first time, their eyes focused on Sephiroth's coat-tails- how it had all passed them by. It was scary, that they'd saved this world they knew so very little about.

"Phew. Good to be home, huh?" she'd said as she walked through the door, headed straight to the fridge. He'd nodded.

They'd travel again. He knew it. The itch, borne of the time they'd spent without homes, was far too ingrained in them. It was yet another scar they bore from Sephiroth's war, invisible and indelible. But if that was the price they paid, it wasn't so bad. A scar isn't half as painful if you share it.


	21. Relentless

_Relentless_

* * *

He collapses upon the bed, exhausted. It's four o' clock in the afternoon, but already his body is shutting down for the day. The bedroom is dark, cool, a stark contrast to the summer heat outside. He rolls over, and turns his nose to the bedspread; it smells of hot chocolate, a sure sign that Yuffie had been watching so-called 'chick flicks' whilst he was away. He sighs, and knows he is home.

Seconds later, she throws herself on the bed next to him, and wriggles in delight at the cool sheets.

"I missed ya, dork," she says affectionately.

"And I you, Yuffie," he replies. She, too, smells of hot chocolate, or perhaps it's just her pyjamas.

"Don't expect any bang-a-rang though, Captain Claw. I haven't got the energy," she grins.

"You must be getting old, Yuffie," he teases, reaching out to stroke her cheek. She snaps at his finger and grins wryly.

"Oh, I've got the energy for the sex. I just can't be bothered to wash the sheets afterwards," she smirks.

In truth, her energy is never-ending. Just being around her makes him feel tired. She does not walk; she rushes. She does not speak; she sings. She does not smile; she grins like a Chesshire cat, and the rest of the world seems to fade to invisibility in light of her smirk. Every action taken to the extreme, every feeling cutting to the bone; that is how she lives.

And each day, he feels he is getting left further behind, as if he is running to catch a train which will not stop and is picking up speed. It isn't the age of his body that slows him; it is the age of his mind, the wounds which heap upon his conciousness.

"No. I think it is I who is getting old," he murmurs, closing his eyes.

She looks at him and understands. She knows the weariness, the fatigue that plagues him. At times, he snaps when she bothers him, then goes quiet for hours afterwards, eyes unfocused, mind turned inwards like the barrel of a gun. She knows that he is not tired of her but of life, which is all the scarier as she doesn't know how to fix it.

Waiting until he is asleep, she steals out of the room.

"_Surprise!"_

He is woken rudely and coldly by what seems like the waterfalls of the Ancient City. Yuffie grins devilishly down at him, bucket still in hand.

"Yuffie, I am _tired_," he croaks.

"Well, sure," she says, dropping into seriousness like a pebble into a pond. "But Vince, tiredness is like an illness. You gotta fight it with energy. I know it sounds stupid, but that's the way it is."

"I know," he says, and he does. If he sleeps, life will pass him by, as it did long ago. He won't let it.

For a life with her, he will be relentless.


	22. Caress

_Caress_

* * *

It is a feeling which drives him to distraction, blights his concentration and disturbs every train of thought. It is her hand, gentle upon his shoulder, on his chest, against his face. It is guilt and jealousy and disappointment, squeezed into one easily ingested ball of emotion. And he hates it more than anything in the world.

In desperation, he turned to books. The shadows under his eyes attest to hours of lucubration in the moonlight. He has read everything, from paperback novels to scientific dissertations on the subject, and is no better for it. The wisdom of scientists and historians, long since passed away, has failed him.

In the scattered papers, he nevertheless finds his resolution. Until the problem has been resolved, he will not allow her to touch him.

She notices immediately. Her first act in the day is to kiss him, the last to stroke his chest as he slumbers. Hers is a physical, even possessive style of love; when he shies away, suspicion is instantaneous.

"What's wrong, Vince?" she asks tentatively, trying to put her hand on his arm.

"Nothing," he says stiffly, and marches off for work. His arms are cold where she has not held him. He shrugs it off, or at least makes the attempt.

When he returns home, the cold has spread to the rest of his body, and bites still further into his mind. He chastises himself for his foolishness. Withdrawal symptoms from a morning hug? Ridiculousness for any man, not least him, a self-confessed murderer ("Hero, Vince, hero," as Yuffie would remind him).

"Hey, Vince. How was your day?" she asks brightly as he walks into the room. She leans in for a kiss, but he moves back. Her eyebrows knit in confusion, before descending in fury.

"Alright, buster. You and me are having a talk, right now," she says, prodding him in the chest with her finger.

"There's nothing to discuss, Yuffie."

"Oh, I'm not discussing, I'm arguing. What the hell's your problem? Ever since this morning, you haven't let me touch you. You keep pulling back with that goddamn martyred look on your face," she accuses hotly.

He sighs. "Yuffie, I cannot let you touch me."

"Why?" she hisses. "Am I not pretty enough anymore? Too much of a _tomboy_ for you?"

"Yuffie," he interrupts. "You are beautiful. When you touch me, it is comforting, gentle. I adore your touch. But you give me something I cannot give back. My own hands...cannot give that comfort."

"Dork," she huffs. "I like the way you touch me. You don't have to be comforting or gentle. Just you."

"But...I have to learn," he says, unsure of himself.

"Don't learn. Feel. It's not so hard," she says, brushing her hand against his face.

He cups her hand in his. She is warm, and so is he; and perhaps that is all a caress truly needs to be.

* * *

A/N: Just a sidenote: Lucubration. To work, write, or study laboriously, especially at night. Excellent word.


	23. Juxtapose

_Juxtapose_

* * *

He is not an unattractive man, and thus do many of his problems begin. The way he speaks is close to poetry, the voice he speaks in mystery and smoke. He has piercing eyes and a cool demeanour; his grin, on the occasion he shows it, is drenched in nihilist charm. His frown matches the clothes of black and red and leather to make him look like a bad boy, a lost soul. Women either want to save him or be saved by him, and adding a shot of fame into the mix has earned him more suitors than he cares for.

The one suitor he does care for, however, finds the situation intolerable. Competition in the market place keeps prices down, leads to more choice and better quality; competition when a ninja's about leads to the competition being disposed of in the most painful way possible. Yuffie Kisaragi is every inch a ninja.

However, the man himself does not mind quite so much. Women, he knows, are a great source of information. Whether it is because they notice more of the world than men, or that they are more willing to share it, is a discussion he'd rather ignore. All he knows is that he can, for the price of a single semi-flirtatious comment, have precious knowledge of the world and its people at his fingertips.

He is cold, to use them in such a way. He knows. Man is not perfect, and few less than he.

He cares little for Yuffie's jealousy, for he cannot understand it. He imagines them, side by side; Yuffie, and the most beauteous of his suitors. One short, the other tall; one with tough brown hair, the other downy raven curls. One has the body of a boy, all angles and bones, where the other is all curves and waves, soft and enticing. The clothes, too, differentiate them, Yuffie's full of patches, rips, tears, woven of gaudy colours and of dull cloth. The other's are satin dresses, pristine and supple.

There is no competition.

There is no competition because when he pictures them together, the other woman, with her thoroughbred face and slightly flared nostrils, her pursed lips and come-hither eyes, stands still as a portrait, and as two-dimensional as the same. The colours are too soft, bare crayon drawings in the face of oil paints.

When he juxtaposes them, Yuffie refuses to stand still. She bounces, fidgets. Her gaudy colours are vibrant in his mind, her face with more expression. She bounces towards him, away from him, dripping life and vivacity; she shouts his name, pushes him. She is energy, she is joy, and against her measure no other woman may stand.

He does not understand Yuffie's jealousy, because she has nothing to be jealous of. In secrecy, he has already made his choice between her and the women of the world.

One day, he will tell her so. But not until she finishes scaring off all the other women annoying him.


	24. Shower

_Shower_

* * *

Predictably, he takes his showers as hot as he can, until the water scalds red lines as it runs down his chest. The burns heal quickly with his enhanced body, but the pain remains. Pain is a feeling too; he will not refuse it. He will linger, sometimes for hours, under the heat. When he leaves, he leaves a man more complete, ready to be broken down again by the machinations of a world that does not care.

Hers is the opposite tack. Her showers are brief, and she has gotten the three minute shower down to a fine art. Showers are not for relaxing or considering; they are for waking up, for cleansing, for shocking the body into alertness. If she has no time to shower in the morning, she simply strips off and empties a bucket of cold water over her head. She does it to respect her culture (the tradition long since thrown away by many of her countrymen), but also because she embraces it; the cold, the wet, the sense of panic as the body adapts to its new trauma. When she wishes to relax, she bathes instead.

Their differences need some accommodating. She scoffs at his hours spent washing; he sniffs at her splash and go policy. He showers at night, she in the morning. After his shower, he slips into a robe, and spends the next thirty minutes towelling his hair. After hers, she shakes her head and lets the rest of her hair drip-dry as she dresses. He relishes the softness of his muscles after the pounding heat; she the tingling of her nerves as she becomes fully alert. There is no medium, no moderate, no mediocre.

Except when they shower together. It happens no more than once a month, and both swear by the ratio. She can't be doing with his dithering, she says, and he tells that he cannot tolerate her haste. Nevertheless, they do; once a month, they brave the waters together. He draws the water cooler than usual, and shivers from the change, whilst she begins to sweat. They embrace; she warms him and he cools her. They meet in the middle. Almost inevitably, they forget why they began to shower in the first place, and end up doing something else entirely (after which she sleeps and he draws another shower).

Neither really realise why it's important, but it's become a ritual over time. Sometimes, when he contemplates, he considers it a taste of each other's worlds, a meeting of minds under the running water. When she thinks of it, she considers it an excuse for some sex and a licence to sleep nude under the covers that night. (He normally demands pyjamas. They leave more to the imagination, he says, and the imagination is better in bed than anyone you'd care to mention.)

Whatever it is, it is a compromise. They may take different sides, but in the end they both know life is sweeter in the middle.


	25. Afterwords

_24 Hours: Afterwords_

* * *

Well, I started this rather a long time ago and then promptly forgot it in the wake of Pyjamas. However, having picked it up again, I can say that I appreciate the effect the word limits create. More than once, I've found myself looking for ten, thirty or fifty extra words to cap the story with, and had to trawl the entire piece word-by-word, snipping and clipping. Overall, I think the effect is improved by it; at times, it creates a sense of sparseness that is worth reading for all by itself.

And so ends a collection which should have been finished in a matter of weeks, but has in fact been in production since long before the new year. However, due to a little bit of rest and relaxation, the music of Elvis Presley and Neverending White Lights, and my lucky bandanna, it's finally done.

I sincerely hope you've enjoyed these pieces; I've enjoyed writing them. As always, I would only encourage you to try it yourself. 500 words is, in some ways, a harder limit to abide by than 100, and it's an excellent experience to try and push yourself to fit it all in. Besides, they're actually very fun to do.

Until next time!


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